Bound by Blood and Brimstone (42 page)

Meanwhile, Lorrie Beth and Joshua would be confined to the house all day, every day,

allowed outside only in late evening. This would continue until Lorrie Beth’s eighteenth

birthday. Only then would Joshua be adopted out to a couple willing to accept his flaw. That

should be sufficient time for Lorrie Beth to have learned her lesson, and then she’d be free to

“move back” to Silver Rock Creek.

It was the most insane scenario ever concocted, full of a thousand holes, and it fractured

the thin veneer of my control. “Are you people crazy?” You’re talking about four years of never

leaving this house!
Four years
! And just who’s this lovely couple you’ve found, ready for Joshua

after
he’s older?”

I was barely conscious of the fact that I was on my feet, screaming into their faces across

the table. In some remote corner of my boiling brain, I prepared myself for the forty lashes sure

to come my way.

“You can’t do this! It’s unlawful imprisonment!” I yelped, waving my arms like some

maniac bird. “You could go to jail for this, and the last time I checked, slavery was abolished in

this country quite some time ago!” Momentarily encouraged by their slack-jawed expressions, I

vented further.

“And what about school, Momma? How can Lorrie Beth hope to have any kind of life if

you don’t let her get an education? Are you going to support her until she dies of old age?”

Reese was out of his chair for the second time, breathing hard, his mask of calm betrayed

by the twitching nerve along one jaw. “That’s enough, Ember Mae,” he stated flatly. “The

decision has been made. Your sister isn’t going to be supported, nor is she going to get out of the

hard work that goes along with a baby.”

“Everybody’s entitled to a mistake,” I said, the tears close now. “Is she going to have to

pay for it with her life?”

“Not a mistake. Sin. The sins of the fathers will be visited upon the children, and the

children’s children,” he quoted, his voice tuning up to preacher volume. “The deformed child is

the first installment of payment for her sin. She’ll pay for the rest of it alone, by raising this child

until proper parents can take over. It’s the best way for her to bear her sin with grace.”

With that, I ruptured, maddened beyond measure, pounding my fist on the table in front

of me. “Gee, I must’ve had it wrong all these years!” I yelled. “I thought that was the whole

point of Christ on the cross!” Wrung out, I stomped from the room without a single backward

glance.

Later, after flip-flopping for hours on my mattress and accepting the impossibility of

sleep, I tiptoed outside and slumped on the steps, lifting my sweaty hair off my neck to catch a

breeze. Grateful for the cool air, I was sitting with my chin in my hands, counting stars, when a

voice spoke out of the darkness.

“You’ve been angry with me for such a long time.” Startled into nearly tumbling off my

perch, I whipped my head around, blinking to adjust my night vision. Momma sat in the swing,

barefoot and night gowned.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I mumbled by way of explanation.

“You’re too young to understand,” she said, sniffing. “And far too young to judge me.”

At first, I couldn’t respond, but as long-buried emotions swirled up within me, the words

came, garbled and clotted with sobs. “What happened to you, Momma? What happened to the

woman who sewed dresses for us, and rubbed ointment on Lorrie Beth’s hip, and jitterbugged

across the floor to Elvis?”

“You blame Reese,” she said softly. “That’s not fair, you know. If not for him, where do

you think this family would’ve been by now? On the streets, that’s where, or living like poor

relations with Celeste. Is that what you want?”

“We’ve always raised a garden,” I pointed out, fisting a stray tear off my face. “We

wouldn’t have starved.”

She cracked a harsh laugh, grating my raw nerves. “You think you know so much about

life, don’t you? Everything’s so black and white with you. Someday you’ll realize there are more

shades of gray in real life. Maybe you won’t be so quick to judge then.”

I shook my head, peering at her dim face, wondering if I’d ever known her at all. “How

can you let someone take over your control, Momma? How can you let him do this to your own

daughter?” Desperation seeped through my words as I realized this was my one and only chance

to break through to her.

She sighed, and somewhere from the fields, a whippoorwill called out plaintively. “Do

you honestly think I would’ve wanted this for Lorrie Beth? She’s my baby, for God’s sake,” she

insisted, her voice breaking. “I know she’s never had an easy time of it. You either, for that

matter, but I’ve done my best for you both. I’d give my life to see her happy, same as I would for

you. Then she had to go and destroy everything, her hopes, her future, her good name.”

Abruptly, Momma abandoned the swing, padded to the steps, and towered over me in the

night, her unbound hair a dark sheath against the white gown. “It’s wrong to judge people over

things you know nothing about, Ember Mae. Walk a mile in my shoes, first.”

I studied her for a moment, searching for my lost mother, and not finding her, I replied,

“If I did walk in your shoes, I’d sure take different steps than you have.”

If I could’ve foreseen how it would turn out, I would’ve left then and there. I would’ve

simply gathered Lorrie Beth, Sam, and Joshua, and lit out with nothing but the clothes on our

backs. Of course, it didn’t happen that way. I was only fourteen, full of spit and vinegar, with a

sister who’d been damaged and an infant who should’ve never been.

I started school that fall consumed with one passion: getting my hands on money, and lots

of it. I was going to need it to fulfill my plan of escape. By slipping out small bits of change from

Momma’s horde of egg and butter money, I’d collected enough to rent a post office box in town.

For months, I’d been submitting scores of my short stories to women’s magazines and

had actually been paid for some of them. The hardest part was not telling anyone. The

excitement of earning money through my writing nearly strangled me, but I buttoned my lip and

added to my stash.

Near hog butchering time, as the nippy air took on a bite, Reece was struck with a

revelation. Christmas, he told us, would never be celebrated again in our home. There would be

no presents, no tree, no carols, and no gingerbread. He declared it to be “pagan, displeasing to

God, and “heresy.” From that point forward, more and more activities in our lives would fail his

litmus test of “things that please God.”

Lorrie Beth slid further away, closeting herself and Joshua in her room after household

chores. I rarely saw her unless I purposely sought her out in her isolation. During our visits, I’d

sit on her bed and rock Joshua or sing to him, and though my hugs and kisses were the only ones

he received, he thrived. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He almost

never cried and displayed no interest in his rattles.

The following spring, I discovered the secret to Joshua’s uniqueness, and the discovery

sent Reese into a tailspin. We were watching Ed Sullivan one weekend, and for once, Lorrie

Beth had joined us in the front room. Without warning, the T.V shorted out as a flash of

lightning jagged the night sky.

“Storm’s coming,” Momma commented, glancing up from her darning needle. The next

second, earsplitting thunder crashed overhead violently, and Momma jerked hard enough to jab a

forefinger. With one shrill screech, Sam vaulted out of my lap onto the floor, while Reese

twitched and cupped both hands over his ears. I scrambled for Lorrie Beth’s room.

“I’ll get Joshua,” I called over my shoulder, certain he would be screaming in terror. I

was cooing at him before I even got to the bed, trusting the sound of my voice to calm him. Just

as I reached the threshold, a second and third thunderbolt rent the night, and I practically shot out

of my skin. Joshua lay on his back, covered with the light blanket I’d spread over him earlier.

The blanket was unwrinkled, undisturbed. He was sound asleep.

Behind me I heard, “Oh my God,” and I whipped around, nearly colliding with Lorrie

Beth. Her hand was over her mouth, her eyes wide as they met mine. “He didn’t hear it, did he?”

she yelled over the downpour outside. I shook my head, my heart sinking. “No. I think he’s deaf,

Sis.”

“Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it? Just what we need! A deaf-mute freak! What now?

Will somebody please tell me what we’re supposed to do now?” Reese’s response to the latest

news the next morning was a dramatic prelude to school. Bellowing like a taunted bull, he paced

the length of the hearth, alternately wringing his hands and throwing them toward the ceiling to

beseech the heavens. “Lord, I know this girl has to pay for her sin, but what now, Lord? What

am I to do?”

I’d been the one to deliver the blow, goaded by Lorrie Beth out of some warped need to

“be honest.” I’d felt no such obligation to Reese, but I had to admit that seeing him crack like a

thwarted toddler bent on having a hissy fit amused me in a twisted kind of way.

During his rant, Momma tried to hide her uneasiness behind the ironing board where

Reese’s shirts lay ready for pressing. “It’s God’s wrath being poured out for that girl’s sin,

Mona. He’s not finished with his righteous judgment.” He paced by me yet again as I bent my

head over my biology notes and pretended to study.

“Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think, Honey,” Momma suggested, dropping her eyes

to the iron before scooting it along a shirtsleeve.

“How can you say that, Mona? You know what this means, don’t you? It means they’ll

back out, now. They’re not going to burden themselves with a child who can’t hear or talk!” This

last ended on a wavering, piteous note. I was certain he was about to break down and cry.

“They won’t back out,” Momma said firmly, setting the iron aside and risking a peek at

the back of his head. “They made a promise, and they won’t break it.”

In two strides, he was in front of the ironing board, neck veins bulging as he shoved his

fat face into Momma’s. “Well, get them down here if you’re so sure of that!” he bellowed. Go

uptown and call them. We have to have a signed contract!” Momma reared back in an awkward

stumble, nearly scorching her hand as she dropped the iron with a heavy thud.

Clueless of what I was getting myself into, I intervened. In the heat of the moment, my

only thought was to do something, anything to erase the paralysis of fear stamped on Momma’s

features. Lurching out of my seat to stand behind Reese, I spoke in slick tones to veil the ragged

nerves underneath.

“It doesn’t have to be like you say. These people, whoever they are, will still want

Joshua.”

Everything ceased. I had their attention. Reese pivoted, warily digesting my comment.

“What are you talking about?”

Cutting my eyes to Momma and noting the relief in her face, I addressed Reese, which I

knew would feed his ego. “You’re worried about this couple not wanting a deaf child because

most people think a deaf person can’t make it in the world, right?”

His expression remained guarded. “That’s right. What about it?”

“Deaf people can learn to communicate, Reese. They use sign language. Some read lips.

Some even learn to talk. Ever hear of Helen Keller? She was brilliant. She traveled the country,

giving speeches, yet, she was deaf, mute,
and
blind.”

Hope was dawning, and he grabbed it with both hands. “Yeah? So, how do we get
him
to

do all that?”

I shrugged, faking confidence. “I’ll teach him.”

I had no clue what I was getting into, offering up my services like some amateur
Anne

Sullivan
. Maybe, subconsciously, I held out hope that if Joshua could appear more “normal,”

Reese would change his mind and let us keep him. More likely, it was my way of grabbing a

pinch of control in a world where none had existed. Whatever my intent, I soon discovered I'd

bitten off more than I could chew.

First and foremost would be the time required for such an ambitious venture. Because of

schoolwork, chores, writing, and keeping Sam out of trouble, the only obvious solution was to

cut down on sleep. By the time spring exams rolled around, I’d conditioned myself to making do

with a couple of catnaps each night.

Through the discovery of three library books on the subject of sign language, I’d spent

six weeks teaching myself the basics. My plan, encouraged by daily practice, was to begin

Joshua’s lessons on his first birthday. It was to be my present to him, a gift purchased with

burning eyes, marathon nights, and days spent in a stupor.

Despite Momma’s disapproval, I’d insisted on baking cupcakes for the occasion and was

holding Joshua on my lap for his first messy bite when a shadow shifted across the floor in front